Blackthorne--Scene 72

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Seventy-Two

UNBROKEN

“You are the road--show me the way. Light up my

day; no more tears, for I am unbroken.”

--Darren Styles.

1(sound cue) six-string blues slide & French horns.

2(overhead drone shot) the Bronson auction barn 

corral, an Appaloosa in the middle kicking up a fuss,

with the rails full of spectators, necks jutted forward

like anxious crows.

3(sound cue) heavy hoofs, stallion screams, sax riff.

4(drone in wide shot, descending)

5(sound cue) bullwhip crack and crowd noise.

6(close-up) Chatawa’s angry eyes.

7(cut to medium wide shot) the stallion on his hind 

legs, hopping and snorting, neighing like it was in 

the middle of a buffalo stampede, slicing the dusty 

air with its front legs. There were two ropes around 

his neck, one lashed to a breaking post, and the 

other was being dragged around in the dust. One of 

Bronson’s hands, a grizzled wrangler, stood behind 

the post, the rope around his wrist and waist. A 

younger cowboy jumped down into the sawdust and 

swept up the end of the loose rope. 

8(sound cue) snare drum and coronet.

9(medium close-up) the Appaloosa leaped forward 

and the young cowpoke was almost jerked off his feet. 

In retribution, the old wrangler lashed his rope even 

tighter.

10(medium wide shot) Cash & Thor Bronson were on 

the rails near the gate. The auction foreman, Graff, 

and Paul Bronson were on the rails to the other side 

of the gate.

11(two shot) Cash and the wrangler; Cash yelled out 

across the noisy corral: Ryker!

12(close up) Cash: I want that jughead broken today!

I want a women to be able to ride him by sundown.

13(sound cue) crowd laughter & cajoling over clarinet.

14(wide shot) Ryker ordered the youngster to lash his 

rope to a second post, and to get a horse blanket. He

rapidly did so, and stood waiting for more instructions.

15(close up) Graff’s red flabby face: Come on, Ryker,

get on that damned plug and show him who’s boss!

16(sound cue) piano & harmonica.

17(medium wide shot) the wrangler told the youngster

to hang on to the breaking rope, taking up the slack, 

while he took the horse blanket and walked toward the 

stallion.

18(close-up) Chatawa watching him warily.

19(medium close up) Ryker: Easy, big fellow, easy.

20(two-shot) Ryker kept up his soothing banter as he

approached the flecked stud. Chatawa arched his 

neck, bobbed his head, and stamped the ground with 

a front hoof. The wrangler got within two feet of the 

stallion, and stopped.

21(sound cue) harmonica huffing.

22(overhead crane shot) Neither one moved. There 

was a long frozen moment while they stared at each 

other.

23(two-shot) Ryker reached out to stroke the horse’s

neck. The flesh on the stallion’s neck quivered, as he 

pulled his head back.

24(sound cue) French horn, saxophone & coronet 

bleating in harmony.

25(wider shot) the stallion leaped forward, pulling 

the young cowboy to his knees, raised up on hind

legs again, pawing the air with lethal hooves, backing

Ryker half way across the pen.

26(sound cue) crowd response, cursing & catcalling.

27(medium close-up) Ryker: You damned blockhead!

No more bullshit! It’s time to knock some of craziness

out of you! --his voice an angry growl.

28(two-shot) He whirled around to a sawhorse near 

him, and grabbed a short bull whip with multiple tails.

29(sound cue) If you use it on him, I will use it on you!

some one yelled.

30(wide shot) Everyone turned. Johnny Eagle 

straddled the gate, watching Ryker like a hawk watches

a rodent. Buck stood just behind him, his big hands on

the gate.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Change is a Bitch

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Change is a Bitch

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels,

the troublemakers--because they change things.”

- Rob Siltanen.

Remove change,

and there is less

conflict & chaos--

                                 but the sad fact remains

                    that without change, progress

          stalls out like a tractor out of gas,

  like lungs without oxygen, like fish

flopping on a bloody deck.

As recipients of unerring

seasonal shifts, every 

one of our days is rife

with change.

As we age there are new limitations that appear

like lichen or rodents or barnacles in the night.

As we mature,

one hopes that

wisdom, better judgement

and compassion

will embrace our sphere.

As we learn, we are given opportunities to

incorporate and apply changes to our personal

perceptions, our interactions & relationships.

Yet, I have

railed against,

rebelled and resisted

change, as if it were

a plague ship,

allowing my well mantled fears

      and well constructed comfort zones

             to complicate and obstruct, even though

                    I understand that most times change

                                 is inevitable, & often inexorable.

                                 When it comes to “Change”, the

                        only thing I hate more than my

                   mounting health issues, more

               than all those things I have to 

           cross off from my plans and

   activities, is my daily bitter dose 

of Trump-madness, as the 

ghosts of Mussolini and 

Boss Tweed’s Tammany

Hall combine in filthy depths

of their corruption,

and America, as the bastion of liberty is now

developing crippling cracks in its white columns,

and grievous wounds to its spirit. All I possess 

is anger and grit to sustain me.

Donald J. Trump,

like the institution of slavery,

like the Inquisition,

like pogroms & gas chambers,

like Witch trials & McCarthyism,

like boils on my butt

shall pass.

It may be a painful transition,

like pulling teeth with rusty pliers,

like passing stones through your urethra,

but history is sharpening its daggers

and sanity is gathering its forces.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Quill Strokes

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Quill Strokes

“Beware of advice--even this.”--Carl Sandburg.

After writing poetry, fiction, and technical reports for

sixty years my ambitions burn close to the bottom

of the wick, my goals have become simplistic--just

keep on writing. Over the years, my association with

dVerse has thrilled and enticed me, educated me, 

and helped to implement divers change in my style. 

Now Haibun has become my favorite form, and I 

enjoy the freedom to get creative with it.

30 years ago I wanted to get published, believing 

that this somehow would validate my talent and 

authenticity. Many of the poets I know finance their 

own publications--this just doesn’t appeal to me. In a

decade my poetry blog has logged in more than a

million visitors, and the international fellowship within

dVerse assures that my creative fires remain well lit.

“It is a good time to be a poet, but the pay is still 

shitty.”--Bobby Byrd.

Photography has

become my reigning passion;

poetry stands alongside.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Haibun

Bruiser

image from wildlifeanimals.blogspot.com

Bruiser

“Regardless, I am still passionate about 

grizzly bears.”---Timothy Treadwell.

It’s November, and my den is hollowed out. I

just feasted on four fat turkeys--ha--a few less

for man’s table. I pick my teeth with four inch

claws. My jaws are so strong I once bit through

a cast iron frying pan to get all the bacon grease.

I mated twice in August, and I’m ready for the

big nap.

They call me Bruiser--which appeals to me a 

hell of lot more than Ursus Horribilis. There are

only a couple of a dozen of us here in the North

Cascades. I range a couple hundred miles, 

sometimes checking out the foothills of the Rockies.

I was raised in the Yukon, but over the last decade

I’ve worked my way down here. I once spent a

year in Montana, but it was just too damn crowded;

hundreds of bears competing for sex and food.

I’m about 30, old for a Grizz--most of us check out

before we’re 25. I think it’s because some of them 

choose not to hibernate; stupid kids--afraid they’re

going to miss something. I’m left alone, which is how

I like it. I’m 9 feet tall, and weigh 880 pounds. I had 

a tussle with a rogue Sasquatch last year. He was 

about 8’ tall, and weighed in at a skinny 425. He was

pretty nimble, but they’re not good fighters; small jaws

and teeth, with no claws. I had to stand erect to battle

him. He gave up after I tore one of his arms off; made

a nice lunch.

I’m expecting a big blizzard this week, so I’m eating

everything that moves, from ants to coyotes. I tend to

hibernate for 5 months. At my age, I enjoy the rest--

but I’ll tell you what, when I emerge in April, I am

both cranky and real hungry.

In Spring the grizzly’s

roar causes critters to hide, cuz

they will devour all.    

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

So Dense

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So Dense

“If Tao is like a river, it is certainly good to know

where the rocks are.”--Ming-Dao Deng.

Geologists ain’t afraid

of no rocks,

because

they love

the hard stuff.

Slim women rock

their tight jeans,

but how do they

get them on?

Blues men gave

musical birth

to both

jazz and rock.

Yeah,

rocks in your head.

but not yet

dead.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44  

Ode to Muscle

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Ode to Muscle

“If a writer has to rob memories of his mother, he

will not hesitate.”--William Faulkner

The last muscle car

I ever owned was

a 1973 Mustang, 

Pantera styling,

jet black & waxed,

a fastback, 

a 4-speed transmission,

and 400 horsepower

out of a 351 Cleveland V-8.

After a while though,

I began to realize,

it was damn heard to see 

out out the small back window,

it averaged 8 miles to the gallon.

and because it was a classic,

it was very hard to find parts.

Insurance was too high,

maintenance was prohibitive,

repair costs were outlandish,

and I banged it up twice

backing up blind.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Odes

Killer Kick

image from quintoquartobr.com

Killer Kick

“if we become apathetic, art can kick our ass, give

us back conscience & focus.”--Erik Pevernagil.

Sunday got the blues

as I sat alone

watching the Seahawks

lose a game

to the Washington Redskins

17-14.

Kicker Blair Walsh,

the man with a golden leg,

missed three field goals,

contributing mightily

to the loss,

all three kicks

wildly to the left.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44